Ma, tell me a story.

Not long ago, my son would ask me for a story as he drifted off to sleep. I’d always tell him tales of growing up as a 70s kid, making spook houses and backyard carnivals and bumper sledding. My son falls asleep with his phone. We all fall asleep with our phones. I remember how I used to fall asleep as a child. My mom sitting on the side of my bed, rhythmically bouncing so I’d feel a rocking motion, hand on my back and humming a song. Then, before leaving, she’d turn the crank on my music box, and the delicate tings of a lullaby filled the room. I’d sing the Apple Jacks lyrics to the melody and it fit perfectly. I can’t go back to being a kid, and times like these I wish I could. I can’t change the culture my kids will remember when they reflect on their childhood. Will they ever want to go back? I can’t relive the past. I can’t freeze time. I can still sing the Apple Jacks song, though.